


Trigger Discipline

by frackin_sweet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frackin_sweet/pseuds/frackin_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Eames is an art dealer in Manhattan, and Arthur is making a living robbing people.  When they meet, they find they have some things in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger Discipline

Dom rings him one afternoon. “We have theater tickets, you interested in getting together?”

Eames shifts the phone and keeps working; the gallery opening isn’t for another few weeks, but that gives him no excuse for sitting on his hands. “Thanks for thinking of me. Seen everything, though.”

“Liar. I know you haven’t seen _American Idiot_.”

“Which is fine, because I often feel as though I’m living in _American Idiot._.” Eames frowns across the room as two over-caffeinated gallery assistants argue about the un-crating of a sculpture.

“Touche.”

At this, Eames hears Mal picks up the other line at the Cobb household. “You can’t fool me with your make-believe apathy. I know you have a soft spot in your dark heart for _A Little Night Music_.” There’s laughter in her voice. “And, after that, the _prix fixe_ at Firebird?”

Well. That sweetens the deal, somewhat. And it’s been awhile since he’s spent time with his friends. “Sondheim, Caspian Ossetra, and thee? I’d be a fool to decline.”

It isn’t until after the show that Eames starts to regret that decision. They’ve fixed him up with someone, and have decided to break it to him over icy flutes of honey vodka. The date is waiting at the bar, and both Dom and Mal cajole and threaten, alternately, to get Eames to agree to their cuing the poor hapless fellow to join them.

Eames has a pretty good idea what he likes, and that doesn’t include being waylaid into blind dates, regardless of how good-looking they may be. He makes his momentary excuses, to go outside and have a cigarette in New York’s last refuge for smokers, the city sidewalk.

Apparently more than half of the other restaurant patrons also are trying to avoid someone, because the sidewalk is full. Eames walks a little ways away and ducks into the shelter of an alleyway when the breeze keeps his lighter from sparking.

Dom and Mal, they’re dear friends. Mal has latent matchmaking tendencies and Dom can’t deny her anything, so they’re doubtless engaged in heated debate over how to properly get him to behave and accept the blind date.

Eames blows a smoke ring and watches it twirl and dissipate in the fetid air of the alley. The Cobbs are happily married, thus, they think everyone should be. And that’s fine, it’s just that...well. He’s never really been that sort, has he? And the Cobbs know this, but refuse to accept it, which is why tonight’s prospect probably even trumps their last attempt; a Rhodes scholar and part-time model. Eames sighs. He should probably get back inside.

But when he turns to flick the cigarette butt down the alley, he sees movement; a startling formation of the darkness. He takes an uneasy step backward when a voice issues forth.

“Stay where you are, and don’t say a word.” The speaker appears in stages; arm, then shoulder, torso. The entire body, dressed in black, all the way up to a full-face ski mask. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” A man, by his voice. The dull gleam from the mask’s eye holes is almost enough distract from the gun he’s holding. Almost.

Eames puts his hands up, as told. In the dim light he can’t make out much of the gun, but it looks like a small revolver, probably .9mm. It gives his assailant a lot more firepower than he requires for a mugging, but, really, Eames isn’t going to criticize tactics right now.

“I have cash,” he says, because he does, and he can afford to part with it. “But I’ll need to reach into my jacket for my wallet.”

“Do that. Slowly.”

Again, Eames complies, slowly. He uses the time to commit as many details to memory as possible. They’re of a height, although the mugger is of a slighter build. Eames guesses at brown eyes, and Caucasian skin from the pale sliver the mask exposes at the eye sockets. His accent is American, but without the broad inflections of a New Yorker. He’s right-handed, and holds the gun like he’s used to having it in hand, but with index finger extended, resting on the trigger guard. It shows he doesn’t want to shoot anyone by accident, and that’s a good, good thing.

Eames has found his wallet by now, although he’d chosen to search all the pockets it wasn’t in, first, to buy some time. He holds it up, and the mugger nods, so he tosses it across the maybe two-armspan length between them. The mugger stashes it, and then speaks. “Your jewellery next.”

Eames wears two rings, and of course, one chooses to stick. “I suppose I should be glad you’re not carrying one of those big knives, or you’d have this off me in rather unpleasant manner,” he says, twisting the ring unsuccessfully.

“Who says I’m not carrying a big knife?” The mugger sounds more matter-of-fact than amused. “Spit on it.”

“What?” Eames stares at the mugger.

“You heard me,” the mugger gestures with the gun. “Spit on your hand, the ring will come off.”

“A little barbaric, isn’t it?” Eames looks at his hand.

“Less than a knife would be.” the mugger counters. “Do it _now_.” He moves the gun closer, menacing, and his trigger finger moves a bit.

It’s the mugger’s first overt display of aggression. “No need to be unpleasant,” Eames shrugs, and complies, and sure enough, his saliva helps ease the ring’s removal. He tosses it as he had the other. “You’ve cleaned me out, then. Can we be done?”

The mugger maintains eye contact. “Not until I have your watch. And if you don’t quit fucking around, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap and just go with what I’ve got. Save yourself the time in a wheelchair. Hand it over.”

Eames looks down at his wrist. The mechanical Vulcain Cricket isn’t extravagant, but it was his grandfather’s. For the first time, he considers resisting. “It’s just a knockoff,” he says, but he knows he’s hesitated too long. The mugger may not be able to recognize the style, but he knows reluctance equals value, and he knows reluctance when he sees it.

And he’s starting to get nervous, so he crosses the distance so that the gun is a hand’s span from Eames chest. “Take. It. Off.” There’s the smallest shake in his voice, but his hand is rock-steady.

Eames has a sudden flash of his grandfather, slapping him on the back of the head, rumbling _Is it worth your life, boy? Don’t be daft._ He makes his own hands stay steady, and makes himself maintain eye contact, as he unstraps the thin leather band. “Now, you’ve made me angry.” It sounds hollow to his own ears, because what can he really do about it?

His mugger doesn’t look away. “Well. I’d say I’m sorry, but, I’m not.” He pockets the watch, and then reaches out, his first actual contact with Eames’ person. He takes Eames by the shoulder and turns him, holding him in place. “When I let go, you’re going to walk out of the alley, and cross the street. Don’t look back, don’t make a sound, or I’ll shoot you in the back.”

“Understood,” Eames says, and that’s all there is to it. The mugger gives him a little push, and he walks as directed. After he’s safely across the street, he still doesn’t turn around, but fumbles in his jacket again, this time looking for his mobile. He can feel his heartbeat stuttering, and starting to slow, as he realizes he left it at the table with Dom and Mal. With a deep breath, he turns. And stares down the alleyway.

It’s empty.

Hours later, back at home, Eames realizes that the fruitless trip down to the police precinct, and even the frightening incident itself, were still preferable to having to deal with the blind date. It’s with that thought he finally sleeps.

~~~

His life contains altogether too little sleep, lately. Improvements at the gallery are moving more slowly than he’d like, and today he has an appointment with his designer, who, despite her relative youth and small stature, has all of his employees in thrall. She leaves off dominating one of the carpenters to visit him in his makeshift office.

“Dom tells me you were assaulted the other night outside Firebird!” Her eyes glow with excitement.

“I’m touched by your tender concern, Ariadne.”

“Oh, don’t be all sensitive, you’re fine, right?” She smacks him enthusiastically on the arm. “Was it exciting? Did you try to get the gun?”

Eames realizes that Ariadne has either gotten few details from Dom, or she’s elected to overlook them. “I’m really too busy to get shot right now, so, no. I gave him what he asked for, and he left. Without shooting me. I considered the evening a mild success.” The loss of the watch still rankles, but he ignores it. Once things are gone, it’s best not to miss them.

“Psh. I’ll bet you could’ve taken him,” Ariadne replies. “Now, let’s talk about those gantries. And why your contractors don’t have the walls done yet.”

Eames looks down at his wrist, and curses mentally that he’s forgotten to wear his other watch. “What is it, four? I could use a drink. Your gantries will keep.”

He lets Ariadne pick the venue, and she comes up with a pub that serves greasy sandwiches and chips along with a variety of beers on tap. Apparently someone of her size and energy level needs to calorie-load every couple of hours, and he watches her empty her plate, and listens to her lecture him on his personal life.

“You cannot keep dating escorts, that’s no way to spend your life!”

“Leave off, would you? It’s all I have time for, and for that matter, all I have the inclination for, right now.”

“It’s tawdry, Eames. And you’re lots of somewhat questionable things, but tawdry isn’t one of them.” Ariadne crunches a pickle to emphasize her point. “People have fuck buddies, you know. It’s okay to sleep with your friends, and have them still be...you know, your friends.”

“If that’s a proposition, darling, it’d carry more appeal if you didn’t have mustard on your face.”

She waves off his hand and grabs her napkin. “I’m serious, you idiot. We both know that even mustard-free, I’m not exactly your flavor. And that’s fine. I just think...”

“Don’t think. Dom and Mal do enough thinking on my behalf, and all that’s getting them is a coterie of pissed-off single friends.” Eames forestalls her continuation by taking the napkin out of her hand, and gripping her fingers. “Really. I’m satisfied with my life the way it is.”

She tilts her head, considering, and then picks up her beer. “Whatever you say. I just don’t like that the thing you have that most resembles a relationship is getting robbed at gunpoint.”

At this, he grins. “Sounds like a typical relationship to me. And you have foam on your lip.”

He’s ready to dodge her smack, this time.

~~~

Tonight he returns to his flat, more than a little vexed about various incompetencies. Truly, when he did a more hands-on sort of work, he’d not have settled for the shoddy crap he’s dealing with every day. His workout room has sat empty for weeks, but tonight, he makes use of the heavy bag, delivering a beating that makes the chain creak, and plaster dust rains from the ceiling. It’s distracting, and it feels good to use muscles he hasn’t had time to pay any attention in awhile.

Afterward, he finds bottled water in the fridge, and is momentarily distracted by a pile of mail, including correspondence from a potential artist-in-residence for the gallery. So, he’ll draw a bath, and after that, some supper, and then attend to the correspondence. There are worse ways to spend an evening, regardless of what Ariadne or the Cobbs or anyone fucking else thinks.

His spacious rooms are chilly, even beyond what feels good to him, sweating and still heated from exertion. It’s early for it, but he goes to turn on the radiator and the taps in the bathroom.

There’s an open window, and the breeze is keen. Funny, he’s sure the housekeeper wasn’t due in today; he’s going to have to have a word with her about it. He moves to close the window, when an almost-familiar voice freezes him in place.

“I guess you’re someone who doesn’t worry much about locks,” the voice says.

Eames has the presence of mind to turn off the taps before straightening, hands raised like their previous go-round. “I guess I’m someone who doesn’t expect the bloke who robbed him to try a second time,” he counters. He forces himself to focus; to think. The voice behind him confirms the hypotheses he’s been mulling over since the mugging, hypotheses formed by that single, steady finger held carefully off the trigger. This is no two-bit thief; no amateur.

This is someone who doesn’t simply go for cash and valuables and tosses the rest in a dumpster. This is someone who checks the ID and other information he finds in wallets. Someone who knows which Manahattan addresses might be worth a return trip.

“If you’d let me turn around,” Eames suggests, “easier to show you where I keep the good stuff, that way.”

He thinks he hears a sigh. “You do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you.”

Eames shrugs, still facing his bathtub. It would be no trouble at all for this man to shoot him in the head; he’d topple forward and conveniently empty his life’s blood down the drain while the man cased the flat at leisure. “I just like to keep things civilized.”

“Fine. Turn around. Slowly, and keep your hands where they are.”

Eames does it, and he’s again regarding his assailant. He puts his brain to work memorizing new details. The gun comes first, and while it may indeed be the same autoloader the thief used earlier, it now bears a suppressor, indicating that the thief is well-used to working indoors, and knows his way around a firearm.

The way he stands points to this as well, like he has the situation well in hand. He’s alert, but not tense. He’s not looking around every few seconds as he had in the alley. Eames thinks he may have been there for some time, long enough to know where the doors and windows are, the locations valuables, and of anything his victim might be able to use as a weapon.

His thoughts are interrupted by more instructions from the thief. “I’m going to back up now, and you’re going to walk forward, and down the hall, into your living room, and sit down in the armchair.” At that, it almost seems like the man is smiling when he talks. “Don’t think for a second I’m not still aiming right at you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Eames replies, and when the man backs away, and out of the bathroom doorway, he does as he’s been instructed. The walk to the living room seems far longer than it ever has before. There is an itch between his shoulder blades, and he knows it’s a phantom sensation of being in the gun’s sight.

The chair he’s to sit in is out of sight of the large windows, in a corner lined by bookshelves. As he sits, something on the side table draws his eye. Duct tape.

“You don’t need that,” he says, and for the first time that night he feels some fear that’s difficult to control. He does not want to be restrained, or unable to see, or talk. He doesn’t get the impression that this man needs to dehumanize him in order to rob him again, but he can’t be sure.

“I’ll sit here. Hands where you can see them. If you need to know where to find valuables, I’ll direct you, with no trouble,” he finishes.

The thief has been standing, gun pointed and at the ready, listening to Eames talk. Suddenly, with unexpected agile speed, he’s right there, and has the tape in hand. He leans down a bit.

“I know you like to talk. Do it too much, and I’ll use this,” he holds up the tape.

Eames looks at it, and then up at the masked face, nearer to him than it has been thus far. “I’ll keep my thoughts to myself, then.”

Just as quickly, the thief backs off, and tosses the tape aside. “Just answer my questions, and do what I say, that will work.”

Eames realizes something. “You weren’t going to tape me in the chair at all, were you? You’re not going to leave me unwatched while you search the rooms.”

At this, he gets the impression the thief is a little deflated by Eames’ detective work. “I’ve already found a few things, here and there. But, no, I wasn’t, because I need you to show me the others.”

“Shall we proceed, then?”

“Not so fast. Questions, first. Where’s your cash?”

He hadn’t found it, then. “I believe I have some in...the night table drawer.” He always keeps a roll of bills there, for obvious reasons.

“We’ll go there last. You have a safe?”

“Yes. In my office.”

“Which is upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Let’s go then.” The thief gestures with the gun, _be quick about it_. Eames is starting to understand the shorthand. And he’s getting a little bit tired of being ordered around.

“You know, I’m well aware that you could shoot me. You don’t have to wave that thing around like it’s your prick.” Oh, he should probably not be flip with the man holding the gun. It does make him feel more in control of the situation, though.

And, to his surprise, the man behind him chuckles abruptly. “What was that you said earlier, about keeping things civilized?” The gun pokes him in the back as they walk up the stairs. “You don’t exactly look like you sit around an art gallery all day. How do I know you’re not someone who could disarm me?”

Eames realizes he’s still wearing the sweaty t-shirt and track pants from earlier. “I suppose you don’t know that.” His brain races, trying to remember what was in his wallet. His card from the gallery, obviously. Was Ariadne’s in there, as well? Dom’s?

“Right. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll wave my gun around like it’s something I’ll fucking kill you with, or whatever else I want.”

Eames stops at the second floor landing. “Fine, you’ve made your point. No need to be so touchy about it, though.” At this, he turns slightly. The thief keeps the gun barrel firmly between them, but he simply looks over it, at Eames.

“Why are you stopping?”

“Do you want the office, first? Or my bedroom?”

Surprisingly, the thief somehow looks like he’s thinking about this. The posture of his body changes, and he tilts his masked head over to one side, the way Ariadne does, or the way anyone might in the midst of a conversation.

For some reason it makes Eames picture the thief in regular clothes. Standing there, casual, in jeans and rolled-up shirtsleeves, maybe holding a cup of coffee instead of a gun. Thin, but athletic. The kind of musculature built by running distances. And he looks at the thief’s concealed face. He can see those same slivers of light skin, and this time, the darker color of lips. The thief has thin lips, that quirk a little bit at one side, when he’s thinking. Eames imagines ascetic bone structure, arched brows, maybe one that likes to arch higher than the other.

The thief is talking again. “I _said_ the bedroom. Go, now, and sit down on the bed. In the middle of the bed.”

“What made you change your mind?” Eames asks as he carries out these instructions.

The thief waits until Eames is seated, cross-legged, at the center of the bed, before bending down over the night table. “Well. Since you’re being so cooperative...I figure your safe’s not worth my time. You’re a bachelor, not likely to have a collection of diamond jewellery. If anything, you keep important documents in there, maybe some cash. I’ll take the easy stuff. For now.” He pulls a money clip of folded bills from the drawer. “This is a surprise, though. Wouldn’t have guessed you had a thing for prostitutes.”

“Escorts,” Eames corrects, and then feels kind of silly for doing it. It’s interesting though. Apparently his thief is good with clues, as well.

“Riiight,” the thief replies. And then he crosses the room to root around on the top of the dresser. Sure enough, there goes Eames’ other watch; more expensive, but of no sentimental value to him, and a pair of cufflinks.

“Well. This was kind of a wasted trip,” the thief says, dropping the cufflinks with a metallic patter.

Eames thinks this sounds a little bit ominous, but he rises to the occasion anyhow. “What, my company not stimulating enough for you? I’m hurt.”

The thief is economical with his movements, he doesn’t open his mouth a lot when he laughs. This time, he does show the tips of even, white teeth. A real smile. “Actually, among the people I’ve relieved of their property, you’re one of the more interesting.”

“ _Relieved of their property?_ Is that you thieves are calling it these days?”

“Sure, there was a memo. And we’re not thieves. We’re extra-legal entrepreneurs.”

Eames grins too, at this. He’d probably not have gotten banter this good on his blind date. “That’s brilliant,” he replies. “Congratulations to whomever does your public relations.”

Just that fast, the thief is directly in front of him again, with the gun pointed at his forehead. “That would be me,” he says, voice soft, and deadly serious again. “Get up, and walk into the living room.”

Eames realizes that this will be the end of their rapport, for the night, and goes. The thief has him pick up the duct tape, and walk into the bathroom again. This time, he has Eames get into the bathtub, and hold on to the tap.

Then he uses several feet of duct tape to thoroughly tape Eames’ hands to the tap, starting at the wrists and completely encasing his fingers.

“I didn’t cut your phone line, and I left you your cell,” the thief says, helpfully, as he opens the window, and climbs out the way he apparently came in. “By the time you work your way out of that, I have no problem with you calling the police.”

The night has gotten much cooler, but this time, Eames doesn’t notice it. He runs out of patience as soon as he hears light footfalls in the street below. He braces a foot against the side of the tub, and wrenches back, over and over, until the tile shatters and the tap pulls free from the wall.

He still has tape stuck to his hands when he dials the police.

***

The results are predictable. First, there are interviews with police, and the ultimately unproductive endeavour of looking through hundreds of police mug shots. His flat is dusted for prints - also unproductive, as his thief had worn gloves - and a few items are taken into evidence. A couple of intrepid detectives seem almost pruriently interested in Eames' occasional indulgences in the company of escorts, but that, too, proves a dead end. Eames argues with Cobb over the necessity of security systems. Ariadne threatens to buy him a rottweiler, and then a kitten. Finally, all Eames does is replace the locks on a few of the windows. He also ends up paying the housekeeper extra for having to clean up all the fine silvery dust off everything.

Dom and Mal invite him over for dinner, and for once they resist the temptation to fix him up with someone. It's an enjoyable evening, the Cobb kids are adorable and precocious, of course, and somehow it's easy to find the patience to pull quarter after quarter out of James' ear, and play Cat's Cradle with Philippa.

Until he gets a call from a number he vaguely recognizes. It's the lead detective on his case, who thinks they might just have something this time. They have a person of interest at the precinct, but don't have cause to hold him for long. The detective wants Eames to view an identity parade, which he calls a police line-up, immediately. Eames makes his apologies to Mal, successfully resists Dom's suggestions that he come along for moral support (Dom is probably just perishing of curiosity), and gets a cab to the precinct.

The junior detective on the case is waiting to take him upstairs to the viewing area as soon as he arrives. Eames is brought into a windowless room that's made no less drab by ample fluorescent lighting. The lead detective joins his partner, and Eames again wonders how the man can afford to dress the way he does on the salary of a municipal employee.

"Mr. Eames," Detective Saito shakes his hand, businesslike and unsmiling. "You have my apologies for interrupting your evening, but you understand that time is of the essence." Eames has always had the impression that Saito thinks he’s part of the problem, for doing careless things like leaving windows unlocked.

"And right now we're detaining the suspect without cause," Saito's partner adds. Detective Fischer is young, earnest and doe-eyed, and Eames can see how they probably work the Good Cop/Bad Cop angle well.

"All right," Eames says, turning to face what he knows is a one-way mirror, that extends the width of one wall. "Let's see what you've got, then."

Fischer picks up a wall phone, and tells an unseen attendant to go ahead, while Saito turns off all but one bank of lights in the viewing room. Conversely, someone turns on all the lights in the interrogation room. Its walls are white, with vertical hash marks for measurements: 5 feet, 5 feet, 6 inches, 6 feet, and so on.

Six men, all Caucasian, all around the 5 feet 9 inches mark in height, file into the interrogation room. Eames finds himself watching the way they walk, and mentally dismisses one of them, who shuffles his feet, and another, who has markedly stooped shoulders and a potbelly.

When the queue of men turns to face the mirror, at the attendant's command, they are all holding large number placards.

"Not Two. Not Four." Eames says to Saito, who is watching him, rather than the queue of suspects.

Saito and Fischer exchange a look, and then Saito nods. Fischer writes something on a notepad, and picks up the wall phone again. "Will you please have number one step forward three steps?"

"We're going to leave two and four in the room," Saito tells Eames. "But I want you to take a closer look at the others."

Eames nods, and goes to stand at the window, closer to number one. Close enough to see brown eyes, and a pissed-off expression. The build looks right. But there's something about the dirty t-shirt and greasy hair that say no. Eames is somehow sure his thief is more fastidious about personal hygiene. There had been a moment in his living room, when the thief bent over him in the chair, when he'd been sure he'd smelled a trace of cologne. It wasn't something he'd mentioned to the police, because he'd possibly imagined it.

"I don't think so," Eames says. "Might I have a closer look at number three?"

Number three moves athletically, and again, the build is right. He's also clean, and neat, and has a bit of a smirk on his face that gives Eames pause. Then a full smile, when someone in the interrogation room cracks a joke, is telling. Number three has a gold tooth. So, no.

Numbers five and six are difficult. Yet again, wiry, athletic builds, and fine-boned facial features. Eyes of an indeterminate dark shade. Both have straight, white teeth, Eames makes sure to note. Both dressed more or less like college students. And both, as the attendant has them come forward, and back up, and turn in profile, have an efficient, yet somehow unremarkable, way of moving. Either they're both totally unaware of it, or they're trying to do it.

Saito is still watching Eames as he considers five and six. Eames moves closer to the mirror, so close his nose is almost touching it, and stares at them both.

Six taps his foot, artlessly bored.

Five looks right back, somehow directly into Eames' eyes, for just a brief moment.

Eames can feel Saito watching. He steps back from the mirror. "Might we have them speak? Five, and six, and...three, let's have three as well."

Saito is silent for a long moment, and Fischer stands expectantly, phone in hand. Saito nods. "Is there something you'd like them to say?"

Eames clears his throat. There's a phrase that hasn't left his thoughts since the night of the break-in. The way the thief said it, the inflection. "Have him say, 'We're not thieves, we're extra-legal entrepreneurs,' ."

Fischer relays the instruction, and all three suspects step forward again to repeat the phrase. Three has a marked Brooklyn accent, and stumbles over the word 'entrepreneur'. Six remains bored, and sounds it.

Five swallows before he speaks. Then he delivers the line as tonelessly as six did.

Eames waits carefully, for a measured space of seconds. Then he looks at Saito, and shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't definitively say."

Detective Fischer is noticeably disappointed. "Are you sure? We can have them speak again, or we can -"

Detective Saito interrupts him. "Mr. Eames. You're saying that you cannot identify any of these men as the one who broke into your home?"

Eames shakes his head, and makes a regretful face. "I'm sorry. I appreciate your hard work, but no. I can't."

Fischer sighs, and uses the phone to tell the attendant to empty the room. "Well. If you'll both excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish, then." He leaves, and Eames hears his steps recede down the tiled hallway.

"I was indeed hoping we would be able make an arrest," Saito says. "As it stands, we will have to release the suspect."

Eames nods. "I understand."

Saito again is silent for a long moment, and then nods in return. "Detective Fischer will have some forms for your signature, then. If you'll follow me."

Eames follows him back to what is apparently the detectives' office, a large room full of cluttered desks and battered chairs on casters. There is a strong scent of day-old coffee.

Saito indicates a chair next to one of the neatest desks, inhabited by only a flatscreen computer monitor and keyboard, an orderly stack of files, and Detective Fischer's name plate. "Wait here, please."

Eames sits. Detective Fischer is nowhere in sight, and a single other detective talks on the phone several desks away. Saito makes a notation on a large whiteboard at one end of the room, and then leaves.

Eames watches the detective on the phone for a minute, long enough to determine that she has no interest in people waiting to sign forms. Then he flips open the top file. Clipped inside is a photograph of number five, smiling, hair falling across his brow. The name on the datasheet beneath the photo reads -

"Mr. Eames, I'm sorry, I somehow had the evidence-release form, not the witness form..." Detective Fischer is back with a paper and a questioning look.

Eames simply smiles at him. "It's no trouble," he murmurs, and sets the proffered form atop the closed file. He signs his name without even looking, and says he really needs to be getting home, if they're quite done? Fischer answers by escorting him out of the building, with more assurances that he'll receive a call if there's any break in the investigation.

Eames is in the cab and almost halfway home before he realizes that he doesn't even know if _Arthur_ is his thief's first or last name.

~~~

The next few days pass in a blur of activity; in addition to work at the gallery, there are meetings with his financial consultant, and his attorney. The former is to make plans to over-insure the gallery and its contents, as well as any personal valuables that may inadvertently turn up missing, and the latter is to obliquely query the ramifications of willfully neglecting to identify a suspect in an identity parade. As a hypothetical scenario, of course.

Because of course, he can't be one hundred percent sure that number five, Arthur, really is his thief. Or at least this is what Eames tells himself, when he thinks about it.

He does think about it. Arthur is the first person who's been in his home, other than someone he's paying to be there, in some time. Eames can't help but think that Arthur came to find him because he wanted to. Because the...conversation, if you will, was worthwhile. Moreso than a few trinkets and some cash.

He wishes he'd been able to look at Arthur longer, behind the shield of the viewing room mirror. Look at his bare face, so mobile, even in its sparcity of movement. At his dark, slicked-back hair. At the colors he wears, dark jeans, a green shirt, a close-fitting brown leather jacket. At his un-gloved hands, with their straight, tapering fingers.

And that's enough thinking for now. Eames realizes he has no idea what Yusuf, the potential artist-in-residence he’s interviewing, has just said. "Well, of course," he replies, hoping he hasn’t agreed with something like a radical political view, or an affinity for American reality television.

Yusuf frowns quizzically. "I just...said that I read you'd had a break-in recently," he says.

"Oh, that," Eames waves a hand. Then, "How did you find out about that?"

Yusuf looks a little embarrassed. "Well, after you called, I did a little more research. Googled you, actually. There was a bit in the Post police blotter, just a few lines, about you being accosted at your home, armed robbery, etcetera."

Eames considers this, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. He misses the good old days, when an Internet search on his name would turn up not a single word. But then again, he and Dom worked very hard to maintain that level of covertcy. Now he requires a public profile, a legitimate presence.

"Ah, yes. Unfortunate, that. I believe it's handled, though."

Yusuf looks around the gallery, taking in the work still being performed. "So the gallery is secure, then? I mean, the studio and living quarters upstairs, they're accessible by the fire escapes, and the main floor..."

Eames mentally curses Dom Cobb for being right. He's not going to share that with Dom, though. "I'm having a security system installed. In a few days."

"Oh. Well that's all right, then!" Yusuf is reassured, and they reach a tentative agreement for him to take up residence at the gallery for the next six months. Eames finds out Yusuf will be bringing his cat, and that this will require special calibrations to the motion detectors for the security system he now needs to acquire as soon as possible.

Ah, well. Every man deserves a little company.

~~~

Something is off, he feels it, as soon as he enters the foyer. Maybe he's just paranoid, but still.

He's halfway across the dim living room when a light switches on.

Arthur is sitting in the same armchair in which he'd placed Eames, the last time. The gun is at hand, but resting on the arm of the chair.

His apparel is a cipher of black, and he's worn the gloves again. But, this time, he's forgone the mask.

Eames tosses his jacket over the couch. "I’d say we have to stop meeting like this, but it’s such a cliche. Good evening, Arthur."

The narrowing of eyes when he says Arthur's name is a satisfying reaction.

"Sit," Arthur replies. "We need to have a talk." He still doesn't raise the gun. Eames thinks this is progress, so he takes a seat on the couch opposite Arthur.

"I agree. And since we're talking, I have a question for you. What are you doing in my house? From what I understand about the other day's proceedings, I gave you what constitutes a free pass."

Arthur nods. "You did. I knew that was you, watching, at the police station. And from what I know of you, Mr. Eames, I guessed that you could figure out I was the person who'd robbed you. You're anything but unobservant."

Eames notes the almost cordial tone, the reciprocal use of his name. "What you mean to say is that, I'm not unobservant _for a wealthy dilettante_ ," he counters. "Since your usual victim can probably hardly open his eyes from fear, or pay attention to anything other than trying not to piss himself."

Arthur inclines his head a bit. "You do seem hard to intimidate."

Eames feels a flash of anger at this dismissive comment. "Look here. What I have, I worked very hard for, in a field that gave me plenty of opportunities to develop both my powers of observation, and my resistance to intimidation."

"I can see how dealing in modern art might do that for a person."

Abruptly, Eames stands. It catches Arthur unaware, and in a split-second, he startles, and the gun drops to the carpet. He looks up, almost as if he's unsure what to do next.

Eames just holds his gaze, and then shrugs. "Go ahead. Pick it up, since you seem to need to have it in order feel comfortable."

Arthur hesitates, and then does it. He stares at the gun in his hand, and then back at Eames. "You could've just..."

At this, Eames gives in to the rest of the anger he's felt since that first violation on the street. He is going to put things equal between them, even if it's just for a moment. He crosses the space between them in two strides and leans over Arthur, effectively pinioning both of Arthur's wrists to the chair arms.

"Now. I could make you drop it again, if I wanted to, but a broken wrist probably makes turning a dollar in your line of work difficult, so." Eames can't look Arthur in the eye from this angle, like he wants to, so he speaks in Arthur's ear, leant close enough that his tie falls over Arthur's chest. Eames can feel Arthur's wrist tense in his hand, so he squeezes harder, just as a warning, and Arthur stops. "Good. As I was saying, I could take that gun off you in a thrice, shoot you or not, do whatever I want and whatever you deem worthy of doing to save your own life, which, having had the experience myself, I can tell you you'll find is quite a lot, a large variety of things and activities you might never consider otherwise."

To his satisfaction, Eames sees Arthur swallow. Hears it, even. "Did you have something you wanted to say, Arthur?"

Arthur's voice is steady. "Why did you lie? You knew it was me. You knew."

Eames nods, even though he knows Arthur can't see it. He's close enough that Arthur probably feels it, and he swallows again, before continuing.

"That's interfering with an investigation. If I get caught now, I can tell the police, and they'll arrest you too."

Eames laughs, not loudly, because he's right next to Arthur's ear and he finds he doesn't want to deafen him. He's finally confirmed that yes, that is indeed cologne he got a whiff of the other night. A few more seconds leaning over Arthur, and he might be able to discern the brand.

"How are they going to catch you, Arthur? I'm not going to say anything. And even if they did take you in again...you wouldn't say anything about me, either."

This hits a nerve, and Arthur resists, kicking. Eames sidesteps, and thinks for a moment that Arthur might pull free and things will get dicey. He takes a chance, and kneels on Arthur's thigh, high up near the groin, hard. It has to hurt, but it could be the catalyst to a more serious struggle, and Arthur still holds the gun.

"How about this," Eames says, tightly, trying not to let strain show in his voice. "I'll get off you, and you put the gun down. On that table beside you. And then we can have our talk, like normal people, and you can be on your way, to wherever you extra-legal entrepreneurs go for a nightcap."

He can hear Arthur breathing harder as well. "I could still shoot you."

"You could. Do you really want to add to an already complicated situation?”

Arthur shakes his head. After a few long seconds, Eames lets go of his wrist. Arthur sets the gun carefully on the table, and Eames just as carefully stands up. Then he backs up, and sits on the couch again.

And they both exhale.

Arthur doesn't look ready to talk again, so Eames picks up the conversation. "To answer your earlier question, I didn't identify you at the police station because I didn't want to. I wanted to see what you might do, if you went free. Like come back again." The answer shocks him a little bit, because he's finally admitted it to himself, as well.

"You're a witness. I could have come back and killed you."

"As you've said, yes. You could have. But you could have done that on the street in front of the restaurant, and you could have done it the first time you broke in here. You didn't. From that first moment, you wanted something I have. You still do, and now that you can't steal it, you don't know how to get it."

Arthur doesn't say anything, and Eames wonders if he's made a grievous error when Arthur stands and reaches into his jacket. He has to force himself not to dive for cover when Arthur withdraws his hand and holds it out.

"I'm glad you think you've got me all figured out. But I just came back here to give you this. I can't fence it, and I can’t exactly put it on Ebay."

Arthur is holding Eames's watch; the Vulcain that his grandfather had worn mountain climbing in the fifties.

Their fingers don't even touch as Arthur drops it in his hand. Eames stares stupidly at it. It makes him want to get up and wrestle Arthur back to the floor, grind his face into the carpet. It makes him want to shake his hand and and tell him he's grateful, and they're at quits. It makes him want to throw Arthur on the couch and fuck him until he begs for mercy.

Arthur is watching him not know what to do, with that little quirk in his lip. "Goodnight, Mr. Eames," he says finally, and turns to take his gun off the table. He stashes it in at his waist, and walks out of the room. Down the hall, towards the bathroom.

"I fixed the lock in there..." Eames calls after him, still unable to think of something to say that will make Arthur stay any longer.

Arthur turns, walking backwards, and smiles. "Not very well, you didn't," he replies. And then he's gone again.

~~~

Now that they're finally in the last days of ramp-up to the gallery opening, things start falling into place. The contractors finish their work, and Ariadne is satisfied; much as she ever is, anyhow. The releases have all gone out to all the right publications, and the caterers have confirmed the date. Yusuf has taken to the studio upstairs like a fish to water, and is already painting. A sharp contrast of scents, masking fluid and marijuana, linger not unpleasantly about the open spaces downstairs.

Even Eames' thoughts of Arthur take a back seat to the preparations, and he's almost gotten used to the lack of that particular distraction, when he gets an unexpected phone call.

An hour later, he is seated in an interrogation room at the police precinct with Detective Saito. This time, there is a distinctly different tone to the conversation.

"Your account activity reflects a significant increase in your insurance premium this month, Mr. Eames. And an additional theft rider. Would you care to explain that?"

Eames curses his own carelessness; obviously the police have looked into his financial activities. "With all due respect, detective, do you really need me to explain it? I was robbed of valuables and ID, and my home was burglarized."

"And your place of business, which is due to open this coming weekend, I see, has a new security system."

“That’s right, being as it currently contains my entire livelihood. It would be foolish not to over-insure.”

Saito inclines his head. "Of course. But surely you can see how curious it is that a successful art dealer has not carried this much insurance before now. Before a rather inconsequential personal robbery and home invasion."

"Really? And I would have thought those were the types of things that moved a prudent person to do just that. In fact, I'd not have been able to convince my financial planner to let me go without, any longer. Likewise, the security system."

"The timing is interesting, is all. As is the fact that you were...unable to identify the person our investigation had targeted as a very strong lead."

Eames sits back in his chair, arms crossed. He knows it's a bad idea to let his frustration show, but this again? "I suppose you'd rather I helped you jail some poor innocent bastard? Because, certainly, the NYPD needs that sort of feather in their cap.”

Saito lets the sarcasm fall flat without a reply, as he takes a long drink of his coffee. "You are acquainted with a man named Dominic Cobb?"

This is unexpected, but Eames keeps the irritated mien firmly in place. “It’s in the original report. I was at dinner with Dom and his wife. The Cobbs are old friends."

"Mr. Cobb had some interesting activities in Europe, it seems, some years ago. Rome, and Paris, where you worked together in some capacity, I believe?"

"Let me clear this up quickly for you. And at the time, Cobb was liquidating sensitive assets for a prominent European collector..."

"You mean the Vatican."

"Not that they were his only client, but, yes. And he hired me as a consultant. To explain the liquidation process would take more time than I'm prepared to give you out of my afternoon, today, detective." Eames thinks it might also require the presence of his attorney, but he doesn't say that.

"It is an explanation that might be helpful in our investigation, Mr. Eames."

"Well, then. For that you can make an appointment with my assistant. I’ll have some availability next week." He gets up to leave. They can't hold him, and Eames knows it's time to make some important phone calls. To Dom, in particular.

Saito stands as well. "I'll do that, Mr. Eames. And, good luck on your opening this Friday."

Eames can't get out of there fast enough. He leaves a message for Dom, and then checks his email in the cab. There is one from an unknown sender, with an attachment. It's a good measure of his agitation that he opens it, knowing it may contain a virus.

 _State of the art security system? The cat could've disarmed it._

The attachment is a photograph. It is somewhat grainy, taken with a phone, and has the jaunty angle of a self-portrait. It's Arthur, in the unalleviated black Eames has come to think of as his work uniform, unmasked, smirking at him. And holding Yusuf's cat. In the middle of the gallery.

It's so cheeky and innocently provocative, that he's halfway through typing a response before he realizes what he's doing. He swears, discards the reply, and then deletes the message with a fleeting pang over not having looked at the photograph longer. He's not even sure how to find out if it's being retained on a server somewhere, where someone can possibly use it to trace Arthur back to him and possibly continue this (untrue, but not entirely ridiculous, he has to admit) assumption that he's preparing to commit insurance fraud. Instead, he does all he can at the moment, and pops out the mobile's sim card. He's going to have to destroy it.

A few hours later, Dom is in his office, treating him to a tedious lecture.

"You know," Dom says, with that _I told you so_ glint in his eye, "The Vatican job could've been executed with any illegal activity. We could've remained compliant with the confidentiality agreement, and we wouldn't even have had to leave Rome."

Eames rolls his eyes. "Right, and oh, I know, we'd have finished up quicker, too."

"You know I've always appreciated your creativity, and improvisational skills..."

“And the extra money they bring in. You know I’m happy to be your ringer in a rigged game.”

Dom smiles. “I will say this, for someone who’s always been bad at poker, you gamble better than anyone I know.”

And a gamble it had been, to arrange for the reproductions of paintings that made their ways into private collections and museums in Europe and beyond. A big payoff, for both of them, but now a simple robbery had got the cops sniffing around not only him, but Dom as well.

"I shouldn’t have assumed the risk for both of us," Eames says.

"Oh, knock it off. It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Really, I don't know why you're this concerned. Our identities in Europe have been erased, completely. It's like we never existed. And nobody could trace a single one of those paintings back to us, unless..." Dom leans forwards in his chair, eyes narrowing. "Unless you..."

Eames squirms under his gaze, but gives up quickly. Dom's like a mindreader sometimes. "Fine. I kept one from Paris." He pictures the painting that hangs in his bedroom, bright colors, an almost garish rendition of a bridge over the Thames. "And...maybe one from _Nardoni Galerie_." One or two, even.

Dom looks less than pleased, but he takes it in stride. "Fine. We need to send those back out into your old network. Move them quickly, take a loss, if you have to."

Losing his favourite will sting, but, well...some things require doing. "Done. What else?"

Dom sits back again. "Tell me again why you're so concerned about this burglar."

This, Eames really does not want to explain. He doesn't entirely understand it, himself. _He smells good_ is a very poor explanation, anyhow. "I know the police have a pretty extensive case built against him, but they need my confirmation in order to make a charge stick.”

"And you didn't pick him out of the line-up the other day because..."

"Because they’ve got the wind up them about my affairs, is all. I can dodge some trumped up insurance fraud charge, but if he knows more than I think he knows..." Eames trails off. It all sounds ludicrous. "I just want him off their radar. And I want to stay off their radar, as well, until I can move those paintings."

"Please tell me you don't have them at home."

"They're in storage at the gallery," Eames lies. It's a half-truth really. All but one of them are there.

"All right. This will be simple, then." Dom takes out his handheld, not the one he uses for everyday business, Eames notes, and starts scrolling through a database. "I know a guy..."

"There's always a guy."

Dom snorts. "Yeah. In Rome, _you_ were my guy."

"Wanker."

"May I continue?"

"By all means."

"As I said, I know a guy. Expert thief, and he maintains some second-generation contacts in the old network. Close enough for credibility, but removed enough to minimize risk."

"I like it so far. Go on."

"Before we do anything else, you need to call Nestor and rearrange your finances again. Reduce the insurance you're carrying, so that no one can say you've been planning to defraud when you get heisted again."

"I like that less."

Dom shrugs. "I told you. Be prepared to take a loss, if you have to. Collateral is replaceable. Time lost to a jail cell isn't."

"Fair point. I'll call him this afternoon, get the insurance settled. Tell me how this gets -" he almost says _Arthur_ "- my thief out of the police’s interest?"

Dom smiles, pleased with the details. "Well, our guy is close enough in height and build to what you described to be a match. And we'll get your thief out of way by having ours leave some identifying material at the scene."

"Nobody at that level would leave prints."

"I was thinking hair, or blood. At any rate, he's in CODIS."

"The FBI database?"

"Yes. But he'll be long gone by the time your detectives figure that out. In Switzerland, most likely. Making him inaccessible, and getting your thief off the hook." Dom continues composing an email while he talks, and then sends it with a cheery little chime.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? Electronic paper trail, and all that?" Eames is still irritated about having to basically destroy his mobile after Arthur's little jest.

Dom waves off his concern. "Relax, I used soft language. No trail, electronic, paper, or otherwise."

"Breadcrumbs?"

Dom gets up and puts on his jacket. "With that charming sense of humor, it's amazing you don't date more."

Eames accompanies him out of the office. "With my overall charm, it's astonishing I'm not taken."

"It must be your shyness and lack of self-esteem then."

Eames grins. "Or I’m just very selective. Lunch?"

"Let's go."

~~~

Friday afternoon, Eames realizes he hasn’t spent any time considering his attire for the opening, and that just will not do. He’s well aware a large contingent will show up in leather and graphic t-shirts, or wearing skinny ties and wrinkled pants with scuffed sneakers, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to cop to the American tendency to want to dress ironically, or some such crap.

It really doesn’t take much dithering to decide on a dark pinstriped suit that stops just short of flashy, but he’s faced with a minor crisis when even a total, aggressive overhaul of his closet refuses to reveal his favorite tie. Which a more sentimental sort of person might call his _lucky_ tie. Not having it for the opening is enough to make him grit his teeth and throw clothing around the bedroom in frustration. He still, however, ends up in the suit, shirt unfastened at the collar. If he can’t have the tie he wants, he doesn’t need one at all.

At the gallery, Dom and Mal arrive early, and for once he welcomes the moral support (as well as Dom’s promise they will talk later, in more detail, about other concerns). Plus, they both look spectacular. Dom is playing footman to Mal’s queen, in a sooty black vintage cocktail dress, and she looks happy to have all eyes on her as she poses in front of this painting, that sculpture.

Eames doesn't manage to relax until he's talked to the arts reporters from the Times and the Post. He also recognizes reporters from the Daily News and a few of the weeklies, and then finally lets his on-the-job guard slip enough to find a glass of wine and really take inventory of things. The gallery is full of people, a noisy, happy crowd. Flashbulb flares pop often; another very good sign (although more than half of them are probably for Mal).

Ariadne shows up late, to much acclaim for her interior design, and escorted by a very attractive man and woman, similarly tall, willowy, and blond. He thinks maybe they’re a couple, until he sees Ariadne stand on tiptoe in her sky-high heels, to kiss both of them, very affectionately, on the lips. He mouths _well done_ at her, and is gratified when she grins back.

Yusuf circulates with a cadre of underground types, sculptors and photographers and poets and musicians and models, many of whom Eames is sure will be smoking hashish and doing god only knows what other junk upstairs later. Which is fine, he really couldn't care less, as he talks to a potential buyer interested in a painting.

Ariadne detaches herself from her dates long enough to come over an clink glasses with him. "I think congratulations are finally in order."

He kisses her on the cheek. It's well past ten, finally he can agree without worrying about tempting fate. “Likewise, Ariadne. Are your companions twins?”

She sips her drink, scanning the room for them. They’re easy to spot, heads above the rest of the crowd, talking rapidly to each other. “Half-siblings, actually. Tommi and Piia. They’re Finnish.”

“Ah, and do you speak Finnish?”

Ariadne smiles and smoothes his lapel. “No. But we don’t spend lots of time talking, either.” Something catches her eye, and her head swivels to look. "Well, someone's a little overdressed." She points with her glass; a slim, dark-haired man with his back to them, regarding a painting. He's wearing light gray, and the sheen of his waistcoat catches the light. He stands with his hands in his pockets, jacket hanging over the crook of one arm. "Can't say I don't like the effect, though."

Eames swallows hard, and she probably hears it, because she looks at him. "Ohh, I _see_ ," she says. "Leave it to you to recognize someone by the way they look from behind."

He'd be cross with her, but in this situation, she's absolutely right. Without really thinking, he sets his empty glass on the bar behind them, and takes two full ones. "Excuse me." He can hear her laughing as he walks over to the man.

Arthur turns at his approach, and Eames almost drops the wine. Arthur is wearing his missing tie.

"That one's already spoken for,” Eames nods towards the painting on the wall. “Unless your study of it has to do with figuring out how to steal it," Eames holds out a glass. "Are you enjoying yourself, Arthur?"

Arthur accepts the glass, and raises it slightly. "You throw a nice party."

Eames likes that he can just stand next to Arthur like this, close as he wants, and the crowd of people surrounding them have no idea that they know each other, and how. "Well. That's the thing about invited guests. I can make sure I show them a nice time."

"You can't do that with uninvited guests?"

This is as much of an opening as he's going to get, and the surfeit of good feelings from the successful opening makes Eames think, _why not?_ Here, he's the host, and Arthur is a guest. "I might surprise you. We can continue this discussion in my office, if you'd like."

Arthur actually lets him rest a hand at the small of his back as they walk. By now, Ariadne has Dom and Mal with her, and they all give him an interested look as Eames accompanies Arthur to his office. "Be sure you _close the deal_ ," Ariadne calls as they're almost past. He doesn't turn, but he's pretty sure she'd give him a thumbs-up if he did.

Eames closes the office door quietly behind him. "The ballocks on you," he says, impressed in spite of himself. "I must admit, you took me by surprise."

"Are you wondering why I came?"

"A little. Since I now know you've already made one visit here."

Arthur shrugs slightly. "You've seen me at my job. So to speak. I guess I wanted to see you at yours. See what you do."

"When I'm not being robbed at gunpoint, you mean?"

"Sure."

Arthur is leaning against the desk, and Eames steps closer to him. "Usually, when someone wears my clothes, they've spent the night with me already."

"You let prostitutes wear your clothes?" Arthur can't quite maintain his calm, he's breathing fast, and he looks at Eames' mouth, instead of his eyes.

Eames rolls his eyes, and slides a finger inside the neat half-windsor. "It looks well on you." He loosens the loop, and tugs. "I'd still rather it were off."

Arthur has opened his mouth to reply when Eames kisses him, holding him in place by the tie. His mouth is warm, and he doesn't close it. He lets Eames explore him before he kisses back.

He pulls back, a little. "I...that wasn't what I expected." He's flustered, and Eames can't help but find this to be excellent.

Eames gives Arthur space, but continues undoing the tie. "What? You show up here, gorgeous, dressed the the nines and wearing _this_ ," he drags one tail of the tie slowly out of its loop, "and you expect me not to react? I'm getting weary of your little tests, Arthur. Can we just dispense with them?"

Arthur doesn't resist when Eames pulls him forward again. This time Arthur meets him, kisses him more aggressively, as agile in this as he is in everything else. His hands slide down Eames' arms, then under his jacket. They're hot through fabric, and Arthur's hard grip says this isn't the first time he's thought about touching Eames like this. He sucks on Eames' tongue and rubs up against him, urgent. Eames drops the tie he's been using to hold Arthur in place and pulls him away from the desk, so he can run his hands down Arthur's back and over his arse.

A knock on the door stops them from going any further. "Eames!" It's Ariadne's voice. "There's someone asking for you...a police detective. Saito? About your break-in, maybe?"

Eames is astonished by the force with with Arthur shoves him off. "You called the fucking police?" Arthur hisses.

Eames shakes his head, as much to say no as to try to think clearly. "No! I never even reported the other...the picture from the gallery, when you were here. Saito's just a bloody tenacious bastard, no...stay _here_ \- " Eames grabs Arthur by the arms when he tries to push past. "Don’t panic. Let me handle this." He can see Arthur's pulse beating in his throat, it makes him want to put his mouth over it, even in the face of this interruption.

"Why would he come here, then, if you didn't call him?"

Eames lets go of Arthur long enough to attend to the disheveled state of his clothes. "He’s here about...oh, bugger, I don’t have time to explain. Your being here complicates things, but I can handle it. Arthur -" Eames takes hold of Arthur's chin, wishing he had longer to appreciate the texture of his skin, with the slight stubble that he can still feel against his own lips. "We’re not done, you know. Will you stay here?"

“Will you explain what you mean, if I stay?”

“Yes.” Eames doesn’t want Arthur to have quite all the information, it’s dangerous for both of them. But he’ll buy Arthur’s forbearance with it if he has to.

"It's a bad idea."

"But you want to?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

Eames nods. "Good then." He opens the door, where Ariadne is still waiting.

"Thanks for finally deciding to come out," she says. "They're waiting, Mal is chatting with them."

"They?"

"Yeah, Saito, and some other guy. Young, cute. Mal's totally distracting him."

Eames closes the door without another backwards glance at Arthur. He half-wishes he could lock him in there, and then come back and remove each article of Arthur's clothing with consummate care, or perhaps a marked lack of it.

Ariadne walks back out into the gallery with him. "Okay. So, first things first, who _is_ that fine piece of arm candy you've got back there?"

Eames shakes his head, and pulls her aside before Saito can see them approach. "For the record, there is no one in my office. No one. And the person you saw me with earlier does not exist. All right?"

"Oh, come on -"

"No, Ariadne. This is serious. I'll explain what I can, when I can, but for now..." he turns her, and gives her a gentle shove. "Be a good girl, get yourself another drink and forget you saw anything."

She's complaining, but goes. Eames walks up to Saito and Fischer and shakes their hands. "Detectives. I hadn’t heard from you, so I wasn’t expecting a visit."

"Your assistant has proven hard to reach these past days, Mr. Eames," Saito says. "I assumed you would be in, during your gallery opening."

Eames bites back a rhetorical comment about how many crimes may be occurring in Manhattan while on-duty detectives attend gallery openings. “An astute assumption.”

"May we speak in private, Mr. Eames? Away from distraction?"

Eames thinks of his office and could kick himself. "I...certainly. If you'll give me a moment to make my apologies to someone? A reporter."

"Certainly," Saito nods. "We will wait."

Eames takes the roundabout way back to his office, making sure to let several people block the view. When he gets there, Ariadne is there, again.

His office door is open, and Arthur is gone.

"Your imaginary friend?" Ariadne says. "Very not imaginary. He asked me if there was a door to the alley out back."

Eames stares at the empty room, remembering the last question he'd asked Arthur, the thief. "And, then what did he do?"

She looks apologetic, sympathetic, the way she would if she'd witnessed him being jilted. "He had me check to see if anyone was out there. When I said no, he just left."

Eames passes her and opens the back door. The alley is empty. He turns back. "All right. Thank you."

"Look, if he's that much of a jerk that he'd just-"

Eames stops her abruptly. "It’s no matter. I need to attend to the detectives." As he passes the open office doorway again, he sees the tie, abandoned on his desk.

He shuts it in a drawer, and goes back to Saito and Fischer.

~~~

Since leaving his prior profession, Eames has always preferred to keep things uncomplicated between his conquests and himself. If that meant paying a high premium for their company, and still not ever getting to kiss them on the mouth, then that was still preferable to the alternative. Which was getting to have just a taste, but never enough, and then having to wait upon not their availability, but their inclination to see him. Additionally, he never had to worry about his own background muddying the waters. Escorts were a known quantity, who didn't care if their partners remained a mystery.

Arthur knows things about Eames, things he hasn't told, and never planned to. Arthur has renewed Eames’ concern for not only his own safety, but for Arthur's as well. The only satisfaction that exists here is that Eames is pretty sure he's the reason for Arthur's impulsive visits.

And Arthur can punish him for it with impunity, by staying away. A pragmatic decision, given their legal circumstances, but one that makes Eames want to pull out his hair.

For the next several days, his friends are all very solicitous of him. Gentle, even, and Eames, in turn, punishes them for it. He says things that make Mal yell at him, and then cry, and subsequently almost comes to blows with Dom. He goads Ariadne into throwing a paperweight at him and calling him all sorts of names he had no idea she knew. He threatens to evict Yusuf for no good reason other than that his infernal cat prowls everywhere, and then he scares the creature perhaps forever by dropping a book almost on its tail apurpose.

The next day he runs up his credit card at the florist, the patisserie, and that little shop that makes the organic pet treats. When Dom tells him his initial offering fell flat, he finds himself buying ruby-red satin slingbacks, size 37, at Bergdorf's. Which are somewhat better received, by both of the Cobbs.

In the evenings, he works late, and then stays up at home even later, smoking too much and not doing anything productive other than planning how to get rid of his remaining collection, in accord with Dom’s instructions.

Once, in a very foul mood, he even wonders if Detective Saito would leave him alone, if he gave them Arthur. Surely Arthur's fingerprints are still in his office at the gallery, and this would be damning evidence. If that would be worthwhile, since Arthur seems disinclined to come round again.

Until the night when he does. Eames is in his living room, with a drink and a cigarette, not paying much attention to either. Arthur walks down the hallway and into the room. It seems like he's offering a courtesy when he peels the mask back.

Eames purses his lips. "Chanel. Pour Monsieur." With Arthur, surprise is reflected in a stutter of movement, rather than on his face.

"You can tell that while you're smoking?"

"No. I wasn't smoking the first time you were here. Or the second. Or at the gallery." He pauses to take a drag on the cigarette, because it masks Arthur's scent, just as he'd speculated. "It suits you." As if there were an appropriate scent for stealing.

Arthur sits at the opposite end of the couch. "You're different," he comments, as if he wants to say more. He doesn't.

Eames likes that he's making Arthur uncomfortable, and hates that he likes it. "Hmm. I could say you are as well, but...really, you've just reverted to your earlier style. The black clothing. The gloves. The mask. Good of you to leave off the gun, this time.”

Arthur's lip curls a little. "You were never this angry at me when I was robbing you."

Eames doesn’t hesitate. “I was. But that was simple, and direct: you wanted something, you took it. Transactional, which makes sense.”

"And now?"

"Now, you just owe me an explanation. Why?"

"Why do I keep coming around?" Arthur sounds more puzzled with each question.

Eames makes a vexed sound. "No. Why are you in this line of work? I used to think you were somewhat good at it, but...you take stupid risks, coming around here, a second and a third time. You’re too smart to be this fucking stupid. You’re not even lying low while the police investigate you. Or me, for that matter.”

"You told me you were going to tell me why..."

Arthur's questions are the final straw, and Eames snaps. He's in Arthur's face, yelling. "No, I'm not going to bloody well tell you!” He grabs Arthur by his jacket and hauls him up. "You're leaving, now, and that’s the end of it. And you're never fucking coming back, do you hear me?" Arthur has his hands on Eames' fists, trying to disengage them, but Eames shakes him. "What do you want? How's this? I left my safe open days ago. Just in case. So you'd have one last chance at what's important to you! Go ahead, have it, and get out!" Eames drops Arthur as quickly as he grabbed him, and stares at him, panting.

Arthur hits the couch so hard he bounces. He stares back. His eyes are dark, pupils shot. He licks his lips, and doesn't move.

And Eames is on him in a second, cursing him. He yanks the mask back down as he kisses Arthur hard. The fabric catches on both their noses. Eames pulls back. "This. Is this what you want?" He's breathing smoke and alcohol into Arthur's face. "To keep this on? Keep me away from you?" He runs the pad of his thumb roughly over Arthur's bruised lips. "Fine. Keep it on."

The sound Arthur makes, the first one he's made, is a painful little growl, and Eames bites him, bites his top lip, hard. Arthur tries to pull away and Eames holds him in place, the back of Arthur's masked head against his palm. He presses Arthur against the couch, so hard the cushions stop giving beneath them, and plunges his tongue deep into Arthur's hot mouth, demanding. He palms Arthur's erection through his pants while he does it, rubbing and squeezing, and when Arthur moves to unzip, he doesn’t stop him. He drags his mouth away. "Get on with it."

He moves off Arthur so he can take his pants down, and then without really even looking at Arthur's nakedness, he turns him roughly, to face the arm of the couch. He touches the newly exposed skin, digging his fingers into the dense curve of muscle, and Arthur moves, giving him more skin, more access. He's got Arthur bent over the couch, pants off, mask peeled back from only his mouth, and it seems exactly right, so much so that his hands shake as he undoes his belt.

Eames doesn't keep lube and condoms in his living room, and somewhere at the back of his consciousness is the fact that he doesn't want to hurt Arthur, even though he wants to make him accept this. There's a memory of some weeks ago, outside the restaurant, and Eames holds out his hand in front of Arthur's face. "Spit."

Arthur does it, warm and wet, and Eames quickly uses it on his cock, before it can get sticky. Then he fucks Arthur between the thighs, between muscles that clench with each thrust, each time Eames’ hips slap against his arse. Until Eames ejaculates against his own couch cushions. He's not even sure of the state of Arthur's arousal, until he feels Arthur move, struggling for some sort of friction against the upholstery.

Eames flips him over and sucks his cock. He’s thorough, taking care of Arthur, sucking hard, swirling his tongue around, relaxing his throat and jaw and using the full range of motion. Arthur's fingers scrabble against the couch until he finally finds purchase in Eames' hair, and pulls. And he's been so quiet 'til now, but now he moans, and makes garbled sounds. Eames understands what they are, and fights the impulse to swallow Arthur when he comes. He lets the semen spill onto Arthur's belly, because they've got these established barriers, and he respects them for whatever reason.

When it's over, Eames feels weak, in the knees and elsewhere.

Arthur is still wearing the mask. Eames imagines he'll take a moment for a cursory wipe-off, and then disappear the way he came, through the bathroom window.

But, inexplicably, he doesn't. He follows Eames upstairs. He showers, declines a robe or pyjama pants, and simply lies unclad across Eames' bed like he belongs there, totally unconcerned while he acts picky about a plate of food Eames brings upstairs.

Eames watches him eat grapes, a biscuit, half a sandwich. He sits propped against the headboard, perpendicular to Arthur, their feet almost touching. He feels like he's taming a fox, or some other feral creature.

Arthur turns to look at him. “What?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m deciding how to describe this scene in my book.”

“You’re writing a book.” Arthur sounds skeptical.

“When I write it. This chapter will be all about how I managed to get a dangerous housebreaker naked and vulnerable on my bed.”

Arthur chuckles and eats another grape. “Sounds like a bestseller.”

“It’ll get them putting crowns on the counter, darling. Besides, I have to do something to replace my lost riches.”

Arthur is quiet for a moment, almost pensive. "I actually considered giving you back everything. Everything I stole from you."

Eames continues to eye Arthur’s lean form. "What changed your mind?”

Arthur stretches to set the plate on the floor. “I do need to make a living, you know.”

Eames nods. “Well. You didn't take much to begin with. And there's at least one thing you can't give back."

Arthur laughs a little. "You're such a smooth talker."

"Even when I'm telling the truth."

"Even then," Arthur agrees. He rolls over onto his back, and this bumps his feet against Eames'. He leaves them there as he regards a painting on the wall. "I recognize that one," he says. "I think I saw the original, in Paris? It's..."

Eames waits for Arthur to continue puzzling it out. "It's...there was a series, of London paintings. By...Derain. Andre Derain. Charing Cross Bridge." He smiles, pleased with himself.

Eames smiles as well. "And you saw it at..."

Arthur snaps his fingers. "The Musee d'Orsay!" He settles back and regards it again. "It's a really good reproduction."

Eames looks at it too, fondly. "I'm not a huge fan of surrealism, but the subject matter reminds me of home." He nudges Arthur's foot. "And it's not. A reproduction."

Arthur is silent for a long moment. "I really can't tell when you're joking, sometimes."

"I’m perfectly serious. That's the original _Pont de Charing Cross_. Derain painted it in 1906, and it was part of a series, of thirty London paintings, commissioned by Ambroise Voillard..."

"...twenty-nine of which are still in existence..." Arthur finished. "You're really not joking."

Eames just shakes his head.

"You're a forger?"

"Not precisely. The Derain copy at Musee d'Orsay isn't my work, although I...facilitated its placement, shall we say?"

"And this is why those detectives were at the gallery?"

"They weren’t there for you, I’m sure of it. I don't think they have the whole story. They want me to think they know more than they do. And I'm pretty sure they want me to give you up, to safeguard myself."

"And you're not going to do that." Arthur sounds, for the first time, a little unsure.

"No. I'm not."

Arthur lies back, one arm stretched over his head. "I appreciate that."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "You're not going to ask for more details?"

"Well, I'm curious, sure. But probably, the less details, the better? For now, anyways."

Eames shifts so he can be closer to Arthur, propping himself on an elbow beside him. "For now, yes. Also for now...it might be a good idea for you to involve yourself in other pursuits, for awhile. Ones that are...the opposite of extra-legal, if you will."

Arthur smiles. "I'm in graduate school. I suppose I could focus on that, for awhile."

Eames is caught by surprise. "Is that why you were in Paris?"

"No, I did a gap year, after college. Traveled Europe."

"Ahhh...so you're an art major then?"

"Nope." Arthur grins again. "Theoretical physics. I'm working on my PhD."

So, apparently Arthur is brilliant, as well as a decent thief. It somehow makes him even more appealing. “That works. Focus on dark matter and such for awhile, then, or whatever it is your lot do.” He rolls over, on top of Arthur, to let him know that conversation is going to be taking a secondary role in his desires for awhile.

This time, they do it right. Not that the quick friction-fuck on the couch earlier was wrong. But this has a balance to it, a give-and-take that makes the activity far more complete. They kiss for a long time, push Eames’ towel and the bedclothes out of the way.

Eames explores all the pieces of Arthur he's been hungering over as Arthur's been draped naked across the counterpane. The long lines of his torso, of his hip. The dip in his clavicle. His flat, efficient abdominal muscles. The soft patches of dark hair under his arms, and the narrow line below his navel. And he indulges Arthur's similar exploration, the way Arthur digs his fingers into the thick muscles of Eames shoulders, his flanks, his buttocks. The way he engages in a battle of wills that reflects all of their other encounters. He struggles, trying to get the upper hand, rolling them over so that he straddles Eames' hips and pins his hands next to his head while he kisses him so hard Eames' head leaves a dent in the mattress. Then he lets Eames switch them roughly, so that he's underneath and squeezing Eames' hips between his thighs as they rub against each other.

Eames discovers that Arthur has thin skin, that even gentle scratches and bites redden his skin and make him squirm. He discovers that Arthur likes contrast, when Arthur holds both of their cocks in hand, interested in the fleshy sheath over Eames' shaft, sliding against his bare one.

He learns that Arthur, brusque and brief at other times, is more than talkative at times like this. Arthur tells Eames exactly how he likes it when Eames fingers him, opening him up carefully. He's deft when he puts the condom on Eames himself, because Eames still has three fingers knuckle-deep inside him.

And he's not ashamed to ask for more, ask for harder, when Eames fucks him. They do it face-to-face, different from before, and Arthur's face, for once, is expressive, his mouth slack and open, as Eames grips his thighs, presses them apart, and gives it to him every bit as hard as he wants. Arthur doesn't even touch himself, he climaxes from the rhythmic, deep penetration alone. Eames comes so hard it hurts, even as Arthur is still shuddering and clenching around his cock.

Eames indulges himself by collapsing on top of Arthur. He likes the contrast in their body types as well, the way Arthur feels narrow but well-made underneath him, and impressively strong. Eventually, he lets Arthur push him aside, and they talk, as regular lovers might, about things regular lovers never even consider. About what needs to happen in the next few months, about laying low and covering tracks and alibis.

Eames doesn't ask where Arthur lives or what university he attends, or for his contact information, and Arthur doesn't offer it. Arthur doesn't ask for details about how Eames and Cobb are going to make the legal difficulties go away. Neither of them like the fact that they’re going to have to stay away from each other for awhile, but it’s maudlin to talk about it, so they don’t.

There is one question Eames still wants to ask, as the conversation wanes in the small hours of the night. “How’d you end up robbing people? I can’t quite wrap my head around it.”

Arthur shifts against him. “Long, boring story. Let’s just say, I’m going to have a small fortune in student loans when I graduate. I didn’t want to be unprepared. Besides,” He turns to look at Eames. “I like doing what I’m good at. Same as you, probably.”

Eventually, they sleep. In the morning, Arthur gets dressed, and walks out the front door of Eames' flat, for the first time.

~~~

 **From the New York Post "NYPD Blotter" page:**

 _After a series of burglaries in Chelsea, an unnamed source close to the New York Police Department reveals that the months-old investigation has turned to focus on a new suspect. DNA evidence found during investigation of a large-scale burglary at a recently-opened art gallery on Twenty-Third Street suggests that the thief may be a man wanted internationally for grand theft and burglary in Europe and the United States. The gallery owner could not be reached for comment, nor could detectives in charge of the investigation._

~~~

He's already late when he meets up with Dom and Mal outside the restaurant. Mal takes his face in her hands and kisses him. Then she backs up to take a considering look. "Oh, _cher_ , you always look so peaked when you're not working."

Eames takes her hands and kisses them before putting them down. "A little leisure time never hurt anyone. I'll figure out something else to do now that I've sold the gallery."

Dom follows them inside, and Eames can hear the smirk in his voice. "Don't worry about him. I'm sure he's already got something lined up."

The host consults his book before ushering them to a corner table in partial view of the bar.

"Now that I think about it, he does look expectant," Mal comments to Dom as he pulls out her chair. "Confess. What are you plotting?"

Eames forces himself not to look around. He has no guarantee, after all. "What? I'm an open book, you know that. No plotting here." He maintains what he's sure is an ingenuous smile as a waiter arrives to take their drink order.

"Mh. What is it they say about idle hands? I wish you'd have let me call someone, I know this lovely young thing..." Mal's hands and brain are the devil's playground, if anything is.

Eames shakes his head at her. "Stop trying to foist me upon some poor unwitting bastard, darling. You lose more friends that way." Now, he looks. Nothing. "Besides. I may be meeting someone. He said he might be available."

Dom does an admirable job of not looking too shocked, and Mal does an equally admirable job of not climbing across the table to embrace him. Instead, she orders up a chilly bucket of champagne, an expensive enough bottle that Eames wishes he'd not said anything. But, he makes a good show of pouring, and they celebrate whatever it is they're celebrating.

Eames not sure what it is until he sees a figure materialize through the bubbles in his glass, raised as it is for a toast. He lowers the glass without drinking, and just looks. When he realizes his mouth is hanging open, he shuts it with a click.

"I hope I'm not intruding," Arthur says. He's there, looking almost as Eames remembers him. His hair is a bit longer. And he's wearing his own tie, this time and a suit that fits him better than leather gloves and a mask ever did.

Eames just nods. And then he shakes his head, in case nodding might have seemed like assent. "Not at all.”

He leans in close as Arthur sits beside him, trying to keep his tone light. “Rob the till on the way in, did you?” he says softly. Arthur favours him with an unreadable look, and for a moment he thinks it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Arthur straightens his cuffs, and Eames can see the familiar quirk in his mouth. “For the record, restaurants rarely have much cash on hand,” he replies, so that only Eames can hear. “Besides. I figured you’d be paying.”

Miles away, across the table, Dom clears his throat.

Arthur looks at them, and then back at Eames. "Maybe you should, I don't know...introduce me?"

Eames can barely feel anything beyond the warmth of Arthur’s thigh against his, under the table. He clears his throat, and tears his eyes away from Arthur’s face.  
.  
Dom is bemused, and Mal looks like a little girl on Christmas morning.

"This is my friend, Arthur," he says to them.

 _\--The End._


End file.
